


My Blue Heaven

by Gemmiel



Series: Midnight Blue [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: 8.23, AU, Angst, Canon Divergent, Destiel - Freeform, M/M, Romance, Sacrifice
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-01
Updated: 2014-09-16
Packaged: 2018-01-07 01:17:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 9,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1113786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gemmiel/pseuds/Gemmiel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel gives up his wings and falls to Earth in order to close off Heaven... and in order to be with Dean. But will Dean want him when he's just an ordinary human?</p><p>AU and rewrite of 8.23 onward. Sequel to my stories "The Azure World" and "Blue Morning, Blue Day," in which Cas and Dean embarked upon a sexual relationship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I never liked the way 8.23, "Sacrifice," wound up. This is a rewrite in which the gates of Heaven and Hell are successfully closed, Metatron's a decent guy, and Castiel gives up his wings voluntarily so he can be with Dean... assuming Dean wants him as an ordinary human. Some plot inspiration derived from Hans Christian Andersen's "The Little Mermaid." Obviously the idea of the third element of the spell being "an angel in love with a human" is not original to me, but has been discussed by the fandom since the episode aired.

Having his grace cut out is going to _hurt._

“It has to be you,” Metatron explains. “The three ingredients of the spell all have to do with love. A Nephilim, a Cupid’s bow, and the grace of an angel in love with a human.”

“I am not in love—“ Castiel begins indignantly, but Metatron interrupts him.

“Don’t lie to me, Castiel. I’ve spent centuries reading love stories, and I know one when I see it. The fact that you’re willing to make this sacrifice tells me that you are in love with that Winchester.”

“I am making this sacrifice,” Castiel says with as much dignity as he can muster, “because Heaven has begun to interfere overmuch in the affairs of Earth. The angels need to be confined in order to limit the damage they can do, and to learn to deal fairly with one another rather than quarrel.”

“They may rip each other apart instead. You know that, don’t you?”

“They have been doing that already,” Castiel says, not without sorrow. “I have done my share of that as well. Which is why I must atone by making this sacrifice.”

“It will hurt,” Metatron warns him. “The first part, giving up your grace, is difficult enough. But the second part, letting all manifestations of your grace burn away—it will be excruciating, Castiel. I am honestly not sure you will survive it.”

“I will take that chance.” 

“And even if you do, you will be alone on Earth, doomed to a woefully short existence, trapped amongst the humans for the rest of your life.” Something must flicker in Castiel’s expression, because Metatron smiles, a little sadly. “You do not really object to that aspect of it, do you?”

“I have grown to like humans.”

“And to love one specific human. Yes, I know.” Metatron plays with the angel blade he holds for a moment, studying its shining silver surface, then looks up. “Castiel, are you familiar with the tale of the Little Mermaid?”

Castiel frowns. “Isn’t that a movie? I believe I once saw part of it on television…”

“The story is much older, and much sadder, than the movie. It is a tale of a young mermaid who gives up her tail for the love of a human prince. But the tragedy of the story is that although she loves him so much that she gives up everything for him, he does not love her in return. On the morning of his marriage to another, she dies, flinging herself back into the sea to become part of it forever.”

Castiel frowns more deeply. “Is there a point to this, Metatron?”

“The point is that you are giving up your grace, your wings—everything that makes you _you_ —for the sake of this Winchester.” Castiel starts to speak, and Metatron holds up a hand. “Yes, yes, and to slam shut the gates of Heaven. Granted. But we both know what truly motivates you, Castiel. You love this Winchester, and you know that as an angel, you can never truly have him, nor he you. But as a human, the two of you could live happily on Earth for a lifetime." He sighs. "But Castiel, if he does not love you in return…”

“I am not concerned,” Castiel says, but deep inside he knows that to be a lie. He has made love to Dean Winchester more than once, and it meant a great deal to him. But he isn't entirely certain it meant as much to Dean. How can a man who's spent his adult life indulging in casual sexual encounters know what sexual intimacy means to an angel? At any rate, although he knows Dean is fond of him, he isn't sure it's so much love as it is an appreciation for his power... not to mention his wings. 

He remembers Dean’s fascinated awe as he touched Cas’ great blue wings, and sighs. There can be no denying that at least part of Dean’s attraction to him is actually to his wings. And if he lets his wings be burned away, becomes merely human…

He calls upon his training as a soldier, refusing to brood when he should be taking action. He pushes the anxious thoughts away, squaring his shoulders. “I am ready,” he says.

But he is not ready, not really. No one could ever be truly prepared for so much pain. When Metatron cuts out his grace, wincing in horrified sympathy, Castiel screams in agony. As a warrior of God, he has of course experienced a great deal of pain in his life, but nothing he's suffered through has ever been this excruciating.

And when he falls from Heaven and the gates slam shut behind him, his wings burn away, and he screams more loudly than before.

*****

Sam refuses to stop.

Dean has begged, cajoled, and threatened, but to no avail. Sam started this, and he's grimly determined to finish it, even at the cost of his life.

“This is bigger than us, Dean,” he says stubbornly. “More important than just you and me. I mean, we have the chance to _close off Hell!_ How can we possibly turn away from that now?”

“But Sam—you’re gonna die—Naomi said so—"

“No offense, Dean, but Naomi doesn’t seem like the most reliable source in the world. She lied to Cas for months, didn’t she? So why should we trust her? For all we know, I’ll die if I stop now, before I finish this. God knows I’m already in pretty shitty shape. Anyway, even if I die—" He pauses to pant heavily, as if speaking in long sentences is too difficult for him. “It’s worth it, Dean. One life exchanged for locking all the demons away? It’s _worth_ it.”

“Not to me!” Dean bellows, but Sam ignores him and places his bloody hand on Crowley’s forehead, like a priest giving a blessing. For a long moment, they wait breathlessly. Then golden light flares outward from Sam’s hand, encompassing Crowley. In a moment, it fades.

And then Crowley begins to weep.

 _It worked,_ Dean thinks in shocked amazement, _it worked, the kid **did** it_ …

But then Sam begins glowing hotter than before, and his heart sinks. He remembers all too well what Cas said about Sam. _You’re damaged in ways even I can’t heal… something on the subatomic level…_

The glow emanating from Sam shifts from gold to silver, like the brilliant light that explodes out of an angel when it's killed, and Dean wants to scream and rage at Heaven. This is his fault, all his fault. He should have stopped Sam somehow, any way he possibly could, should've knocked the kid out if necessary. But he hadn’t, and now…

No one can save Sammy now except God, and God left the building a long time ago.

Tears sting his eyes. He tries to approach Sammy, so that he can at least hold his baby brother while he dies, but the silver glow is too intense, too hot. He can't get near him. He can only cover his eyes and let the tears fall as his brother is immolated by whatever forces are tearing him apart.

A long moment later, the glow fades. Dean lowers his hands, and sees Sammy standing there, looking perfectly healthy, the normal color restored to his skin, his hair glossy rather than lank, his eyes no longer dull with pain, but bright and…

And _alive._

“Sammy?” he whispers, hardly daring to believe.

Sam grins at him.

“I told you, Dean,” he says. “You just have to have a little faith.”

*****

They unchain Crowley, and he's able to walk out of the Devil’s Trap on his own, proving that he is in fact “cured.” Meaning he's human again, after centuries of being a demon. He sobs uncontrollably, all the terrible things he’s done as a demon, and then as the King of Hell, apparently weighing unbearably on his conscience.

Crowley, Dean decides, is gonna need some serious therapy.

They step out of the old abandoned church, Crowley trailing dolefully in their wake, and Dean nearly stumbles over something crumpled alongside the Impala. He bends down, and despite the darkness discovers that it's a naked human form. The guy is lying face down, but the dark, rumpled hair looks familiar, and Dean’s heart begins to pound.

“Cas?” he says incredulously.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TW: blood and gore (fairly minor).

“Damn it, Sam. He’s in bad shape.”

Dean is in the back seat, holding Cas’ naked body in his arms—and that sentence would ordinarily have freaked him out in a big way, considering his baby brother is two feet away, but right now he's too stressed and scared to give a damn. 

He's wrapped Cas up the best he can in his green jacket, but Cas is a mess, blistered and cut and bleeding all over the Impala. He whimpers with every movement of the car, as if the mere fact of existence hurts. Dean can't imagine what could have happened to injure him so badly. His skin is blistered and raw, as if he’s been badly burned all over, and both arms are visibly broken. His ribs are bruised, there are cuts all over his body, and there are long gashes on his shoulderblades that ooze a steady stream of blood. He's so badly injured they hadn’t been able to render much in the way of first aid. They’d just scrambled into the car and hit the gas, aiming Baby down an all-but-deserted two-lane road that leads to the nearest hospital.

“Driving as fast as I can,” Sam says, raising his voice to be heard over the loud roar of the overstressed engine. Next to him sits Crowley, looking absolutely terrified at the speed they're going. They handcuffed Crowley, just to be on the safe side (Dean had been in favor of throwing him in the trunk, but Sam had vetoed that), but so far Crowley doesn't seem inclined to make trouble. Though Dean won't be surprised if he pisses his pants from sheer terror. Human Crowley is apparently a wimp.

“Maybe we should call an ambulance…”

“It isn’t gonna get him there any faster, Dean. Take it easy, and talk to Cas. He’s probably scared out of his mind.”

Dean recognizes that's true. He’d insisted on sitting in the back seat with his injured friend and lover, and it's his job to keep Cas as calm as possible till they get him to the hospital. “Cas,” he says softly, stroking the rumpled dark hair. It is, he realizes with dismay, wet with blood. Jesus, what the hell had _happened?_ “Cas, it’s okay. We’re gonna get you to a doctor… you’re gonna be fine…”

“Glad…” Cas’ voice is a cracked whisper, and Dean has to strain to hear it over the snarl of the engine. “Glad… got to see you… once more…”

“No.” Dean holds him more tightly, heedless of the fact that Cas is bloodying up his clothes. “Don’t talk that way, man. I gotcha, I promise, you’re not goin’ anywhere…”

Cas’ eyes flicker open, just for a moment, and he stares into Dean’s eyes. There's a world of pain and hurt in the blue depths.

“It’s… okay,” he mumbles. “Knew… I might not… survive it…”

His breath is coming in uneven, dry gasps now, and panic grips Dean’s chest, squeezing it like a vise. As far as he knows, if an angel's vessel dies, the angel will survive, and simply go on to find another vessel. But he isn't sure what the hell is going on here, and he has the very bad feeling that Cas has somehow lost his mojo. It's happened before, after all. And that means that if his body dies, Cas might go along with it.

“Sammy!” he snaps out. “He’s not gonna make it!”

Sam glances back over his shoulder despite the fact that the car's going ninety, and next to him Crowley moans and cringes. “Shit,” he says, apparently concluding that Dean's right. “ _Shit,_ Cas.”

He hits the brakes hard, and the car fishtails to a stop as Sam wrestles her onto the shoulder. In Dean’s arms, Cas twitches convulsively, and his eyes slowly drift shut. Dean hears him give a long, shuddering breath, and then… nothing.

“Goddamnit, Cas!” Pain and fear hit him hard, tangling inside his chest so tightly he can barely force out words. “Don’t you _dare_ die on me!”

“Let me see him.” Sam's out of the car, throwing open the back door, and shoving his overgrown body past Dean before the older Winchester can manage to object. “Come on, buddy,” he says soothingly, reaching for Cas. “Don’t you do this to us, not after everything we’ve been through. We’re not gonna let you die…”

His hands brush against Cas’ face.

And _glow._

Dean shies back as a silvery light shines from Sam’s hands, surrounding Cas in what looks like a brilliant aura. He has just enough time for a series of random, broken thoughts— _what the fuck… Sammy… looks like angel grace… but it’s **Sammy**_ —before his brother pulls his hands back.

Still cradled in Dean’s arms, Cas stirs. Dean looks back down, and sees with a shock so great it's almost physical that his skin is unmarked, all the blistering and cuts and bruises gone. His arms are straight and appear unbroken. Even the blood on his skin has disappeared, though there's still plenty of it on Dean’s shirt and jeans.

He’s been… healed. By the same silvery light that had apparently healed Sam after the trials were completed.

“Sammy,” he says hoarsely, trying not to freak out and totally failing. “Are you—did the trials make you—an _angel?_ ”

“That… is not…possible.” Cas’ voice is weak, but he's undeniably alive. Dean feels tears burning his eyelids, and blinks them back hard. This isn't a good time for a chick flick moment, damn it. “It is possible for an angel to fall and become essentially human, but it is not possible for a human to… to rise in a similar fashion.”

“You sure, Cas? ‘Cause that sure as fuck looked like angel healing to me.”

Cas struggles to an upright position. Along the way he seems to notice he's naked. He pulls the jacket over himself in an awkward attempt at a figleaf, blushing so red it's noticeable even in the faint light of the dashboard.

“I presume,” he says, “that Sam completed the trials inscribed on the tablet?”

“Yeah. So what the hell did that do to him?”

“I have no idea,” Cas answers honestly. “It is not something that has ever been done before. But I am fairly certain it had nothing to do with Hell. I suspect that as a… a reward, if you will, for completing the trials, he has been gifted with God’s grace.”

“I thought only angels had grace,” Sam says.

“Not precisely. Grace is…” Cas frowns, as if trying to come up with words. “Grace is something that emanates from God Himself. A sort of energy that operates outside the laws of the universe as you know them. My Father showered it freely on the angels, though the different classes of angels possess it in varying amounts, but few humans have been in possession of it across the millennia. Those few have generally been seen as saviors or sorcerers, witches or saints.”

“Are you telling me,” Dean says incredulously, “that Sam is the next Jesus?”

“Of course not. He is simply in possession of more power than the ordinary human. How he uses it is up to him. Most humans would misuse it, and thus it is rarely gifted to humans. But I believe that by completing the trials, he proved himself worthy of it.”

“Saint Sammy,” Dean says under his breath. “No fucking way.”

“Watch your mouth,” Sam says, flashing the cheerful grin that Dean missed over the past weeks, as his little brother grew sicker and sicker. “You can’t talk that way around me, dude. I’m a saint.”

Dean smacks him on the head, less than gently.

“Get back in the car and drive us home, bitch.”

“Jerk,” Sammy mutters, but he does as he's told.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alert readers will notice that I switched this from past tense to present tense (the first two chapters have been edited to match). Why? Well, because the rest of the series is in present tense, and so this story should be too. Things like that bug me:-).
> 
> Thanks for all the kind comments so far!

The first thing Cas sees when he awakens is a smiling face. He is, he realizes fuzzily, sleepy—something he was previously wholly unaccustomed to. As an angel, he never needed rest. But now…

He struggles to focus on what happened, and how he wound up here, and slowly he recalls that he's longer an angel. He gave up his wings.

“Hey,” a voice says, and Cas looks at the face, which is still smiling gently down at him. Dean doesn't look quite the same to his human eyes as he did to angelic vision. Still, he'd know Dean—spring-green irises, brown hair gilded by sunlight, and crinkles around his eyes when he smiles—anywhere, even though he can no longer see the bright soul shining through his skin and eyes like the morning light through a stained glass window.

“Hey,” he answers automatically, and is surprised by the creaky quality of his voice. Obviously he's been sleeping for a while. Abruptly he recalls that to the best of his memory, he's naked, and he looks down to see if that's still the case. He's lying on an old leather couch, and a plaid woolen blanket covers him, but he can see that he's wearing a t-shirt, and he can feel soft fabric encasing his legs as well. He suspects that he's wearing what humans call sweatpants. 

He isn't sure why it matters that he not be naked in front of Dean, since Dean has explored his vessel so thoroughly on two other occasions. But maybe it's the sheer vulnerability of being merely a man, the lack of wings or grace or power, that makes him feel uncomfortable with nudity. Maybe it's the awareness that this body is no longer his vessel. It's part of him.

He’s never been on truly equal footing with the Winchesters before. Now he's nothing more or less than Dean. Fragile, mortal, _human._

It is… disconcerting.

He looks back into Dean’s eyes, thinking he could study them all day, could spend hours admiring the little flecks of gold and brown deep within the green, like the hidden glimmers in the depths of a precious gem. But he remembers that Dean always complains that excessive staring is rude, so he looks away from the other man, somewhat reluctantly, and studies the rest of his environment. He can hear rain slashing against the windows, and he suspects it's cold out, but a crackling fireplace, some small distance away, fills the space with warmth. It's a cozy room, he observes, lined with leather-bound books, the spines cracked and worn. They are in the bunker library, then… a room beloved by Sam and usually scorned by Dean, who claims to want a home theater instead.

“How you feelin’?”

Cas considers that. Compared to how he felt right after he’d fallen, he feels surprisingly good. Sam Winchester, he remembers, healed him. Which is fortunate, as otherwise he knows he would now be dead. He feels fine now, except…

“My back hurts,” he says, stirring uncomfortably.

“Yeah.” Dean nods. “It looks like Sam healed everything, except there’s a line of bruises on both your shoulderblades where your wings used to be.” 

Sam had puzzled over the oddly linear bruises, and Dean hadn’t explained, because he's worried that if he tells Sam he’s seen Cas’ wings that close up and personal at some point, Sam will draw certain other inferences. And Dean isn't quite ready to let Sam know about him and Cas just yet.

Particularly now. Are he and Cas even still a… a _thing?_ Will Cas want him now that he's changed so much? Dean has no idea, and sure as hell isn't going to ask right now. Getting Cas well is their first priority. Everything else is secondary.

“Where the outer manifestation of my grace was scorched away,” Cas says, nodding as if that makes perfect sense to him. “Yes. Even grace cannot repair such injuries fully. But in time…”

“Eventually you’ll heal up?”

“Yes,” Cas answers, looking considerably less confident that Dean wants him to. “I think so.”

“Okay, then. You’re on the road to recovery, looks like. So tell me—what the hell _happened?_ ”

“The angel trials,” Cas says, sighing. “Well, they were more of a spell, actually. In order to complete the third task, the third element of the spell, certain… sacrifices… had to be made.”

Dean stares at him for long moments. “Shit,” he says at last. “You gave up your grace so you could lock up Heaven.”

“It was necessary.”

“Like fuck,” Dean says, pissed and not trying to hide it. “How come _you_ always have to be the one who sacrifices, Cas? Over and over again, it’s always you. Why couldn’t Metatron do it?”

“For reasons which I would prefer not to discuss,” Cas responds primly, “it had to be me. There was no other way, Dean.” His mouth curves in a faint smile. “At any rate, if I had not given up my grace, I would now be locked on the other side of the gates with all the other angels, and we would never see each other again. So there’s that.”

“Yeah,” Dean agrees, a little hoarsely. “There’s that.” Ever since their discussion in the bar, the thought of never seeing Cas again has been weighing on him heavily, and he's selfishly glad that Cas is here, on this side of the Pearly Gates. 

He reaches out, very cautiously, and takes Cas’ hand in his own. Cas feels the same as always, his palm warm and soft against Dean’s, and a little knot inside Dean that he wasn't even aware of eases. They sit there for long moments in a comfortable, pleasant silence, while the fire crackles and rain lashes the windows.

“Hey,” Dean says at last. “If Sammy got grace as his reward for completing the trials, then shouldn’t you get your grace back, too?”

Cas smiles, a little sadly. “I already possessed grace, Dean, and therefore I cannot regain it. After all, there is no sacrifice if one recovers the thing that was given up. My grace is gone for good.”

“But that’s not fair,” Dean complains. “Sammy got a reward, and a pretty damn good one. You risked just as much as he did, so you should get a reward, too.”

“I did.” Cas's dark eyelashes flicker as he gazes down at their entwined fingers, and another faint smile touches his mouth. His fingers tighten on Dean’s, and he speaks very softly. “I got a soul.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote another story today, but I did want to get this one updated as well. The update is a little short, but hey, better than nothing at all, right? I hope so, anyway:-). Thanks for all your comments so far!

When Dean goes into the kitchen, Saint Sammy is eating cornflakes.

“I figured you’d be eating something more heavenly,” Dean comments as he wanders across the tile floor, getting together a gourmet breakfast for Cas—strawberry Pop-Tarts and a glass of milk. “Ambrosia, maybe. Or locusts and honey. Isn’t that what saints eat?”

“Fuck off,” Sam says amiably.

“Seriously, man…” Dean drops the pastries into the toaster and looks at his brother thoughtfully. Sam looks good, really good. The kid’s been stumbling around the bunker half-dead for so long that he’d almost forgotten what a healthy Sammy looks like. His hair is shiny and full of body and looks like he spent hours in front of the mirror styling it before coming downstairs—which is probably the case. God, his little brother can be _such_ an embarrassment to the family sometimes. “Do you really need to eat?”

Sam pauses with the spoon halfway to his mouth, and thinks about that. “I’m actually not sure,” he says at last. “I… guess? I don’t feel terribly hungry, but I don’t feel _un_ hungry either. You know?”

Dean’s pretty sure that _unhungry_ is not a word, but he refrains from saying so. Sam’s been sick enough that he probably ought to refrain from being an asshole for a week or so. At least a couple of days. Well… an hour or two, anyway. It might be a cold, rainy morning, but both Cas and Sam are alive, healthy, and safe in the bunker, so Dean's pretty damn happy, and for once he finds it easy to keep his inner jerk quiet.

“Cas never needed to eat when he was grace-powered,” he says. “But I don’t know if humans with grace are any different. I mean, he said you’re not an angel, you’re just a human with a little more… glitter.”

“Dude. You make me sound like a character from friggin’ _Twilight._ Anyway, I don’t know if I really need food or not…” Sam digs back into his cornflakes with enthusiasm. “I’m just happy not to feel like puking my guts out any more.”

“Me too, man. Me too.” Dean’s aware that his voice is rougher than he intended. But he’s entitled to get a little misty-eyed, because watching Sam slowly deteriorate in front of his eyes has been tough. Especially when he knows it should’ve been _him_ putting his life on the line. He clears his throat. The Pop-Tarts pop out of the toaster, and he busies himself putting them on a plate and pouring milk into a glass.

"Did Cas make it through the night okay?" Sam asks.

"He slept like a baby." Dean refrains from mentioning that he himself was half-awake most of the night, curled uncomfortably in the big chair next to the fireplace, watching over the former angel. He'd also made several treks upstairs to check in on Sammy, who'd been sleeping just as contentedly as Cas. "He's awake now, though. And probably hungry." 

“And you're feeding him _Pop-Tarts?"_ Sammy drops into his Lecturing Professor voice and tosses in a bitchface for good measure. “C'mon, dude. You really ought to feed him something that won’t rot his teeth or clog his arteries.”

“If he’s human now,” Dean retorts, “he really deserves something besides freakin’ bran muffins for his first meal. Let the guy live a little before you start shoving health food down his throat, okay?”

Sam gives him a fond look he recognizes all too well. It’s the same look the kid gives him every time he and Cas get into one of their staring contests. He’ll turn away from Cas' blue gaze and see Sammy looking at him with affection and warmth and something almost like pity, like Sam knows how he feels about Cas and figures he just isn’t brave enough to face it.

He wonders how Sam would react if he knew the two of them have gotten to know each other in the Biblical sense lately. He suspects Sam would be pretty happy for them (even if he absolutely, positively would not want to hear any details). But Dean’s not about to blurt it out, not now. His feelings for Cas haven’t changed, but he’s not sure where he stands with Cas, not at all. Who knows if Human-Cas will have the same feelings, the same desires, as Angel-Cas? The fact that Cas held his hand is promising, but Dean isn’t ready to jump to any conclusions yet.

 _I got a soul._ What the fuck did Cas mean by that, exactly?

“Yeah, you’re right,” Sam says, and his voice is almost gentle, like he understands way more than Dean wants him to. “He’ll probably think Pop-Tarts are awesome. Tell him I’ll be out in a little while to see how he is, okay?”

“Yeah,” Dean says, heading for the library. “I’ll tell him.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay. It's been a busy couple of weeks. I hope to be back on the steady writing train from here on!

Pop-Tarts are amazing.

Cas is delighted by the crisp pastry, the gooey center, the way the flavors seem to explode on his tongue. He is aware that the pastries are full of artificial flavorings and colorings, and are probably far from a gourmet repast. But they taste wonderful.

“These are incredible,” he says, or tries to. Since his mouth is crammed with pastry at the time, it comes out more as _theahinble,_ and Dean winces. 

“ _Dude._ Don’t talk with your mouth full.”

Cas is too busy chewing to make the obvious retort that Dean Winchester, of all people, is hardly one to be lecturing him on table manners. Dean frequently behaves as if he has no idea what forks and spoons are for, and he often eats at high speed, as if worried his food might wander off his plate and be lost for good if not devoured quickly. But Cas is beginning to understand why humans are sometimes tempted to gobble their food. “As an angel,” he explains, less than clearly, “I could taste every molecule of food, but I did not find it particularly appetizing. But this…”

"Good, huh?"

" _Glorious,_ " Cas sighs.

“Glad you like it.” Dean sits down beside him on the couch. “Turn around, Cas. I want to look at your back.”

“It’s fine, Dean.”

“Don’t argue with me. Just turn around.”

Cas is too enraptured by the taste of the Pop-Tarts to quibble much. He turns around, back to Dean, and the hunter pushes his t-shirt up and studies his back. He can hear Dean’s quick intake of breath. He doesn't know what the bruises look like, but judging from the lingering pain he feels, he imagines they're an unpleasant shade of purple.

“Jesus, Cas. That’s gotta hurt.”

“It’s nothing,” Cas says, less than truthfully, as he swallows the last crumbs. He puts the empty plate on a nearby table, and shrugs, wincing as he does so. “At least it is very little, compared to the injuries Sam healed. I fell from Heaven, Dean. My wings were burned away in the fall. It is only to be expected that I would have some injuries that even grace cannot heal.”

“Your wings,” Dean says, very softly. “Did they actually burn away? I mean, like literally? They were so huge…”

“I told you before, Dean. My wings were a manifestation of my grace. When my grace was cut from me, they shriveled and died. What was left burned away in my fall from Heaven, and that is just as well, or the remnants would have clung to me, weighting this vessel— _my body_ —down, and making the adjustment to human life more difficult.”

“Still. They were a part of you. I figure…” Dean hesitates, as if fearing what he scornfully terms a “chick flick moment,” then goes on anyway. “I figure it’s like one of us losing an arm or a leg or something. I’m _sorry,_ Cas.”

At the genuine sympathy in Dean’s voice, Cas’ throat tightens, and his eyes sting. He blinks, wondering if that is a normal human reaction to eating Pop-Tarts, or if something is wrong with him.

“Thank you,” he says. His voice is hoarse, as he has heard Dean’s voice grow rough at emotional moments. It occurs to him that he may be about to weep, and he blinks fiercely. He is not going to cry in front of Dean Winchester. Despite all that they have shared, Dean is not entirely comfortable with displays of emotion. He does not want to make things uncomfortable between himself and Dean, and that is all tears will accomplish. Tears, he tells himself firmly, are nothing but a waste of time.

And yet he cannot stop thinking of his wings, his beautiful, magnificent lost wings, midnight blue, barred with black, and tipped with silver. They have been a part of him forever, since he was fledged, and he isn’t sure he is _himself_ without them. He remembers Metatron's voice: _You are giving up your grace, your wings—everything that makes you **you.**_

It is, he realizes, the absolute truth. He is no longer himself, not really. He is not an enormous, invincible winged warrior, but only a small and fragile human, mortal and weak and easily damaged. He does not regret the choice he made, the sacrifice he offered of his own free will, and yet…

His vision blurs, and he bows his head, breathing slowly, deeply. 

Dean doesn't seem to have noticed his emotional state. He is still examining the damage to Cas' back, and his callused palm slides, very gently, over the bruises on one shoulderblade. Cas yelps in pain, and he feels Dean jerk his hand back instantly.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters again. “I barely touched you, Cas. Does it hurt that bad?”

Cas clenches his jaw, willing himself not to burst into sobs. He doesn’t know how to explain to Dean that _everything_ hurts. He aches inside and out. The agonizing pain where his wings used to be is excruciating, of course, but the knowledge that they’re gone, and there’s nothing he can do to get them back, is even worse. 

He remembers the story Metatron told him, of the little mermaid who gave up her tail to be with her human, and wonders if she found it as painful and distressing as he does.

“I’m fine,” he manages. To his own ears, his voice sounds rough, broken, as if he’s trying to force it past gravel. He wonders how it sounds to Dean, if it’s obvious he’s on the verge of hysterical tears. The thought embarrasses him. He does not weep. He is a soldier, a warrior of the Lord—

Except he isn’t, now. He is simply an ordinary, everyday human. The thought shatters what’s left of his self-control, and a strangled sob escapes him.

He knows Dean Winchester, is aware of how uncomfortable the other man is when dealing with his own and others' emotions, and he half expects Dean to utter a low curse, jump to his feet, and stalk out of the room, leaving him alone. And that would probably be for the best. Because in a way, Castiel _is_ alone, cut off from his brethren and from Heaven itself, for the first time in his life. He thinks bitterly that he had best get used to isolation. It is all he will know from now on.

For a moment, Dean does nothing at all. But then, slowly, he pulls Cas into his arms, turning him so that his face is against Dean’s shoulder. He wraps his arms around Cas’ waist, carefully avoiding his bruises. One big hand lifts to Cas’ hair and strokes it, and he presses his cheek against Cas' hair and makes low, soothing noises.

Cas can’t hold back his grief and sorrow any longer. He buries his face in Dean’s plaid shirt, and bursts into tears.

*****

The absolute last thing Sam expects to see when he walks into the library is Cas crying his eyes out, and Dean comforting him. Cas has always been a rock. Not emotionless, but—steady. Reserved. Calm. The sight of him wailing in grief is enough to stun Sam into stillness.

But even more shocking is the fact that Dean—the guy who hates chick flick moments with a burning passion, the guy whose usual response to emotional displays is to go grab a beer and listen to loud Led Zeppelin—is holding Cas in his arms, rocking him, whispering to him. Sam is pretty sure he sees Dean’s lips brushing the top of Cas’ head, and he stands there, gaping.

His brother is comforting Cas. Sure, he cradled the fallen angel in his arms last night, but that was different, because Cas was _dying._ Now he's very much alive, but Dean’s still got his arms wrapped protectively around him. More than that—he’s _kissing_ Cas. Very chastely, yeah, but he's definitely dropping kisses into Cas' hair. Sam would almost be tempted to think of those little kisses as brotherly, except Dean hasn’t kissed Sam on the top of his head like that for two decades or more. 

Maybe he shouldn't be all that surprised, because he's known for quite a while that Dean and Cas have feelings for one another—and pretty deep feelings, too. But Dean isn't exactly the kind of guy to embrace his emotions, and Sam long ago resigned himself to the fact that his brother is too repressed to ever go for what he so obviously wants.

But right now, staring at his brother cuddling, actually _cuddling,_ Cas, he thinks maybe Dean is a little more in touch with his feelings than Sam ever gave him credit for.

Despite all the grace glowing inside him, imbuing him with magical abilities and power he could never have dreamed of, Sam proves his utter unfitness for sainthood.

Very softly, he whispers, “Holy _shit.”_


	6. Chapter 6

“Dean?”

The voice is very soft, almost meek, but it’s enough to drag Dean back to wakefulness. He’d been lying in his bed, half asleep, but he’s still on high alert from the events of the last couple of days, and the sound of his name jerks him instantly back to consciousness.

“Yeah, Cas?” he answers, squinting at the door. His bedroom is gray and shadowed, but there's enough light to see that Cas has opened his door and is staring hopefully at him.

“The couch is not comfortable, Dean.”

“I’m sorry.” Dean can understand why his friend is a little sick of the couch in the library. Cas spent most of the day on that couch today, under stern orders from Dean, and he’s probably damn tired of lying there. “There are like a million rooms in this place, but they’re all dusty as hell. We’re gonna clean up one of the bedrooms for you tomorrow, okay? But right now, I want you to go to sleep. You’re human now, Cas, and humans need sleep.”

He doesn’t mention the fact that he and Sam were too busy today researching angels and grace and the question of how to get Cas’ angelhood back to get any housecleaning done. He really doesn’t want to get Cas’ hopes up, because right now things aren’t looking too good on that front. Still, he intends to spend every spare moment researching the subject. After everything Cas has done for him, he’s not going to let Cas’ grace go without a fight.

“My back hurts,” Cas complains, sounding so whiny, so _human,_ that Dean has to stifle a laugh.

“All right,” he says. “Come over here.”

He hears Cas’ bare feet padding on the wood floor, and then the bed shifts as Cas sits on the edge. “C’mon,” Dean says, patting the mattress beside him. “Lie down. There’s plenty of room.”

After a moment’s hesitation, Cas stretches out next to him, facing away from him. He’s still stiff, though. Dean can practically feel the anxiety radiating from him, and it puzzles him. It’s not like he and Cas haven’t shared a bed before. Hell, they’ve been as intimate as two people can be. So why is Cas so pointedly avoiding touching him? 

“Hey,” he says softly, reaching out and rubbing Cas’s arm, careful to avoid the bruised areas on his back. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” Cas pauses, and seems to consider the matter more carefully. At last he adds, “Everything.”

“Yeah. I guess I can see that. I know I said it before, Cas, but I’m really sorry about your wings.”

“Yes,” Cas says, and his voice is acidic. “I suppose you would be.”

Dean tries to make sense of that, and can’t. “What do you mean by that?”

“I mean,” Cas says, bitterness clear in his tone, “that what you really liked about me was my wings.”

Dean blinks into the semi-darkness, seeing the defensive, almost angry line of Cas’ back. He can tell from the sharp edge to Cas’ voice that the ex-angel is trying to pick a fight with him, so he tries for his most moderate tone.

“You know that’s not true, Cas. You’re my friend. My best friend. Wings or not.”

“But my wings are the aspect of me you found most…” Cas sounds more bitter than before. “ _Attractive._ ”

Oh. He can see why Cas thinks that, kinda. The first time they made love was the very first time Cas showed Dean his wings, and after that the wings were always involved. And Dean was admittedly a little… focused on them.

Oh, hell, he found them hot as hell, and they both know it. Cas’ wings were so beautiful, so _awesome._ Impossibly huge, the feathers incredibly soft, midnight blue and black, tipped with shimmering silver …

But none of that matters now. The point is that even if he has a little bit of a kink where wings are concerned (and he does, he definitely does), that doesn’t change the fact that what he’s really attracted to is Castiel himself. Cas is his friend, and more than a friend. Cas matters to him more than anyone else on the planet except Sammy. 

But he suspects Cas-- who hasn't had a damn thing to do today but sit around and brood-- has been working himself into a bit of a state on the subject, and isn’t going to listen to him. Sometimes, Dean thinks, actions speak louder than words.

He moves toward Cas, and presses a kiss to the nape of his neck.

Cas jolts as if he wasn’t expecting that. “Dean,” he says, his voice lower and more gravelly than ever. It’s a voice that’s haunted Dean’s dreams for years, long before he ever saw Cas’ wings. He loves hearing Cas says his name that way, deep, soft, _sensual._

“It’s not your wings, Cas,” he says softly, pressing gentle kisses to the warm skin. “It’s you.”

“Dean.” He can hear tears in Cas’ voice. “I thought—I thought maybe you didn’t—"

“Yeah, I figured out what you thought, Cas. But it’s gonna be all right. I admit I liked your wings, but I like you too. Okay?”

He pulls the former angel into his arms, pressing up against his back—carefully, so as not to put too much pressure on the bruised shoulder blades—and lets his hands wander a little while his lips explore Cas’ neck and shoulder and ear. Cas doesn’t seem to mind. He trembles, pressing his hips back against Dean.

Dean is still wearing jeans, because he has a bad habit of falling asleep in his clothes, but Cas' ass feels awfully good against him even through denim. He's startled to discover he’s hard already. It seems wrong to get a hard-on over Cas, who just fell from Heaven last night, and almost died of his injuries. But he isn’t dead, and maybe that’s why Dean is reacting this way, because he wants to revel in the fact that Cas is alive, and here in the bunker. 

Here in his arms.

He’s hit hard by the desire to strip Cas, to rip off Cas’ clothes—an old t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants—and kiss every inch of his body, but he doesn’t, because Cas feels really fragile somehow. His body hasn’t changed, not really, but it’s no longer humming with angelic power, crackling with energy, sizzling with an electricity that even humans can sense. There’s no Heavenly music, no angelic singing, only very human moans and gasps. Cas doesn’t even smell like he used to—his skin smells of regular shower gel and shampoo, instead of the vanilla and sandalwood fragrance he used to exude from his oil glands when he was turned on. 

Cas is just an ordinary human now, and that feels… strange, somehow. 

Dean restricts himself to kissing all the skin he can reach, but his hands aren’t quite as easy to control. They slip up beneath Cas’ t-shirt, sliding across the warm skin, the taut muscles. Cas writhes against him, and when his palm glides across Cas’ nipple, the ex-angel’s hips jerk violently back against his, exerting a sudden pressure on Dean’s swollen cock.

“Mmmnnnffff,” Dean says. “Take it easy, Cas.”

Cas doesn’t seem inclined to take it easy. His ass rubs deliberately against Dean’s boner, and Dean wants to stop him, but instead his hands drift down to Cas’ hips and pulls him against Dean harder. Jesus, he’s gonna come in his jeans if they don’t stop this.

And yet he doesn’t want to stop this.

He knows he ought to do this right, to strip Cas with slow, methodical movements, to kiss every inch of his body, to show him that it’s not just the wings, but Cas himself he wants, but he can’t seem to slow down. Cas is squirming against him, his gorgeous tight ass rubbing against Dean’s front, and the pressure feels so damn good that Dean has to smother his groans against Cas’ shoulder. 

Goddamnit, he can’t control himself, but he’s damned if he’s going to come alone. He lets his hand slide down, finds Cas’ cock, which is just as hard as his, and squeezes it right through the fabric. 

Cas gives a gasping sob, and his hips stutter wildly, trying to thrust into Dean’s hand and shove back against his hips at the same time. And that’s all it takes to make Dean lose control entirely. 

“Fuck,” he groans, “ _fuck,_ Cas…” 

Suddenly he’s coming, hot and frantic as a teenager, his cock pulsing in his jeans, spurting out come in spasm after searing spasm, while he buries his face against Cas’ shoulder and tries desperately to stifle his whimpers of pleasure.

Despite the fact that he’s hardly touched Cas, it seems to be enough to send the ex-angel over the edge, too. Cas’ cock jerks in his hand, and then Cas is moving frantically, groaning, _Dean, **Dean…**_

At last the storm passes, and Cas curls up in his arms, soft and boneless as a cat. All the rigidity is gone from him, as if he no longer has any worries. Or maybe he’s just exhausted, after his first full day as a human. Dean knows he ought to get up and grab a washcloth and clean them both up, but right now he's just too warmly contented to do it. Cas feels really good against him, and he can't bring himself to move away, even for a moment.

He holds Cas close, and inhales deeply, breathing in the very human scent of him.


	7. Chapter 7

Dean’s eyelids feel unusually heavy. He stirs, in a vague, halfhearted way, and feels the softness of cotton sheets against his skin. His bare skin. He doesn’t usually sleep in the nude, due to long years of sharing motel rooms with other guys, and the fact that he’s apparently naked from head to toe is enough to jolt him to wakefulness.

The windowless room is dim, but the clock informs him it’s past seven. He rolls over, blinking, and pauses at the sight of a shadowy figure sitting on the edge of the bed. 

_Castiel._

Memories rush back-- the way Cas wandered diffidently into his bedroom last night, the way they’d cuddled up together and brought each other to orgasm, fast and hard, like it had been _years._ The way he’d struggled out of bed a little later, stripped them both, and cleaned them both off.

Cas had stirred at that point, made vague noises about getting up and going back to his couch in the library, but Dean had pulled him into his arms and shushed him, and Cas had drifted back into a peaceful sleep. Dean had followed him into dreamland moments later. He'd been tired, thanks to the long hours of watching over Cas and Sam the night before, but he's pretty sure his exhaustion wasn't the only reason he slept so well. 

He squints at the other man, trying to see him clearly. Cas is seated on the edge of the bed, his back turned toward Dean, his dark head bowed. In the dim light Dean can see the dark lines of bruises along his back, marking where his wings once met his skin. The injuries don’t look like they’re getting any better. In fact, he thinks with a stab of concern, they look worse than before. It's hard to tell in the shadowy room, but he’s pretty sure the purple mottling has darkened, and spread further across the skin. He hopes he's wrong. 

Cas doesn’t seem to have noticed that he's awake. His head is bent over something he holds in his hands, something he appears to be studying intently. 

“Cas?” Dean says.

His voice is soft and gentle, but Cas nevertheless jerks violently, as if Dean caught him looking at porn or something. 

“ _Dean,_ ” he says in a breathless gasp.

Dean’s curiosity is really piqued now. “What’re you lookin’ at there, buddy?”

Sleepy though he is, he doesn't miss the sudden stiffness in Cas’ shoulders, the wary glance Cas throws back in his direction. “Nothing.”

“Cas.” Dean sits up, reaches out, puts a gentle hand on Cas’ arm. “Let me see.”

Reluctantly, Cas turns toward him, wincing a bit as he does so. Held gently in his hands is a feather.

Dean begins to understand Cas' reaction. The last time they made love, Cas had left him with a gift to remember him by-- one of his feathers. The feather is midnight blue, with black striations, and a silver-white tip. It looks a lot like a blue jay feather, except no ordinary bird feather ever gleamed so brilliantly. In the darkened room, it almost appears to glow.

Dean remembers finding a similar feather in the woods when he was a kid, remembers the way it seemed to glow in the shadows, and he blinks as an idea suddenly occurs to him. The faint glow of the feather must be...

“Cas,” he says incredulously. “Is there any of your grace in that feather?”

“A trace.” Cas’ voice is heavy, weighted with sorrow. “Only a trace, Dean.”

Dean winces at the pain in his voice. “Not enough to... to jump-start anything, huh?”

"Definitely not." Cas places the feather back on the nightstand where he found it, then leans over the edge of the bed and stares at the floor. “I am fine,” he says. “I gave up my grace willingly, and I should not… _mope_ about it.”

Dean pats him sympathetically. “Moping is just what humans do, Cas.”

“Yes,” Cas agrees dryly. “You and Sam are excellent examples of that.”

“Rude.” Dean catches him by the waist and rolls him back into bed, making sure Cas is on top so as to avoid putting pressure on those bruises. He looks up into the face of his fallen angel and flashes a grin, trying to lighten the mood, because seeing Cas grieve for what he's lost makes his chest ache. “You’ve hurt my feelings, Cas. Better apologize.”

Cas looks down at him, and the sorrowful darkness in his eyes melts away. Something very human, very primal, ignites there instead. He grins, more broadly than he ever did as an angel, looking almost predatory.

“Let me make it up to you,” he says softly, and lowers his head. 

Dean groans, digs his fingers into the dark, rumpled hair, and utters the other man's name with all the reverence of a prayer.

“Mmmppphhhh. _Castiel._ ”


	8. Chapter 8

Making love to Cas as a human, Dean is learning, is nothing like making love to Cas the angel.

Of course, he discovered this, to some extent at least, last night. He remembers vividly that Cas smelled different—no sweet fragrance of vanilla and sandalwood, just the very human scents of sweat and come. He sounded different—no strange Heavenly music, just broken sobs and whimpers and Dean’s name uttered over and over again. And of course there were no wings beating against the air, just Cas’ body writhing in pleasure, and his skin breaking out in goosebumps and a fine layer of sweat.

But there are other, more subtle differences, too. As an angel, Cas never kissed him all over the way he’s doing now. Dean is sprawled out on his back on the mattress, warm and comfortable and seriously turned on, and Cas is kissing him—

Well, everywhere. 

Cas seems to be bent on exploring him. His lips trail down Dean’s chest, over his nipples, making him jolt and shudder and mutter expletives. The hot mouth slides lower, down across Dean’s abs, and Dean moans and clenches his fists to avoid grabbing for Cas and digging his fingers into his hair. Because he wants—oh hell yeah, he wants. But he’s sure as hell not going to ask Cas of all people to—

But a moment later, he finds to his shock that he doesn’t have to ask. Cas’ mouth slides over his cock, which is already hard and swollen and weeping precome, and Dean lets out an undignified squeaking sound before he can prevent it.

“Cas,” he whimpers, high-pitched and desperate, and then catches himself, and deliberately lowers his voice. “Cas. Hey, buddy, listen, you don’t have to—“

Cas ignores him. His mouth trails up and down Dean’s length, exploring carefully, inquisitively, and Dean clenches his fists harder, aching to plunge his fingers into the inky depths of Cas’ hair, but at the same time wanting to push him away. Because Cas is an angel, a creature of Heaven, a being of light and grace and glory, and he shouldn’t be—

Except Cas isn’t an angel. He’s an ordinary human, just as physical and—and base as any other human. And the fact that his tongue is now sliding up and down Dean’s cock, hot and wet and so fucking _good,_ shouldn’t make Dean feel guilty as hell.

But he does feel guilty, like he’s sullying something pure and beautiful and heavenly. And yet he can’t find the strength to tell Cas to stop, because it feels so damn incredible. He twists the sheets in his fingers and writhes, feeling his own skin growing damp with sweat.

“Castiel. _Fuck._ ”

Cas parts his lips, slowly drawing Dean into the warmth of his mouth, and Dean hears a distant, desperate groaning sound, and through the fog of pleasure realizes it’s him. He can’t hold back his reaction, so he lifts one of his hands to his mouth and presses the knuckles to his lips, muffling the helpless sounds.

Cas is clearly very new at this, and there is something charmingly awkward about his attempts to take more of Dean into his mouth. His teeth scrape Dean once or twice before he gets the hang of it. But slowly his motions grow smoother, more confident, and Dean presses his fist into his mouth harder than before, because they are not alone in the bunker, and he wants to cry out, but he can’t just let himself—

Cas’ dark head bobs faster, and Dean’s hands slide down of their own accord, twining in the thick hair. Urgent need coils at the base of his spine, and he hears himself groaning _fuck, Cas, just like that, Jesus yes, God I can’t, oh God Cas, I’m going to—fuck Cas, I can’t stop—oh Christ **yes** —_

He struggles to hold back, but he’s way past any semblance of control. Castiel does that to him, whether he's angel or human. His balls tighten with need, and then heat flares through him, long jolts of pleasure that rock him down to his core. He’s coming down his angel’s throat, and it’s fucking _heavenly._

At last he falls back against the mattress, panting, the world darkening around him. He feels Cas release him, feels the warm body move up the bed and curl up against him. Vaguely, he reaches out, wraps his arm around his angel, and holds Cas close.

He drifts for long moments in the shadowy, pleasant world between sleep and awareness. But as his post-orgasm euphoria wears off, he begins to remember that Cas probably has morning wood that needs taking care of, too. Dean Winchester has never been a selfish lover, and he’s not about to start now just because Castiel has shown an unexpected talent for giving head. He shifts slightly, and feels Cas against his thigh, hard and hot and definitely in need of some attention.

Sleepily, he runs his hand across Cas’ shoulders in a rough caress, and the other man gasps and flinches.

Dean’s eyes snap open. “Shit, Cas.” His voice is gravelly to his own ears. “I’m sorry—I forgot—“

“It is all right.” Cas is looking up at him, his blue eyes big and round. Dean thinks that Cas has eyes that shouldn’t even exist in the real world. Fucking anime eyes, huge and glistening and impossibly blue. “It was not painful, precisely. I am simply… sensitive there.”

“Yeah, you’ve got some bad bruises. Sorry, dude. I’ll be more careful.”

“Actually…” Cas cocks his head contemplatively, like an inquisitive cocker spaniel. “Touch me there again.”

“I don’t want to hurt you, Cas.”

Cas’ eyebrows draw down, and a hint of his old angelic bossiness emerges. “ _Touch_ me, Dean.”

Reluctantly, Dean brushes his hand over Cas’ shoulderblade, as lightly as possible. Cas shudders.

“I’m hurting you,” Dean whispers, but Cas shakes his head, vehemently. He speaks just as softly as Dean.

“Do you remember… do you remember my wings?”

Of course he remembers Cas’ wings. For the rest of his life, he will remember those wings—the velvety brush of them against his body, the warm soft thickness of the down, the scent of the oil that slicked Castiel’s back. The great breadth of them, the vivid blue, barred with black and tipped with silver. They are not the sort of thing he could ever forget.

“Sure,” he says.

“They were… sensitive. When you touched them, it felt… intimate.”

“Yeah,” Dean says, his voice lowering of its own accord, growing husky with the memory. “I remember that.”

“It seems that the base of my wings is still sensitive. When you touch me there…”

Dean brushes his fingers lightly over the skin there, and Cas shudders. “Are you telling me you want to be touched there? Cas, it’s all bruised to hell and back…”

“I know. And yet…” Dean touches him lightly, and Cas blows out his breath in a long, long sigh. “Yes, Dean. I want you to touch me there.”


End file.
